"Come aboard," said David, joyfully. "We're ready to cast off, but there will be a few minutes to spare, I guess. You don't look a shipwrecked sailor, not a little bit."
"I have met those pals of yours," confided Arthur as they hurried up the gangway. "And they are just bully, aren't they? They are the real thing. Mother dotes on the dear little sister, and she is a dear, and Captain Bracewell is a copper-fastened A1 old-time Yankee sailor, that you read about in books. Say, but he is a brick, a whole ton of 'em. And, oh, you will be tickled to death to hear that the other Restless boat was found by a steamer which carried the men to Liverpool."
"Good enough," cried David. "That is the bulliest kind of news."
Elated as he was to learn that all the yacht's crew had been accounted for, the praise of Margaret made David wince a trifle in spite of himself. Jealousy had never invaded his feelings toward the "little sister." He wanted Arthur to like his "dearest folks," but it was not easy to think of sharing their affection. Beating down this ungenerous emotion with a very manly spirit, David cordially agreed:
"They are the salt of the earth, Arthur, and I am mighty glad you like them. They worried themselves almost sick about you. What about Mr. Becket? Have you met him?"
"He looked me up yesterday, and was so full of mystery that I couldn't make head or tail of him. He got almost to the point of telling me something, and then he sheered off on another tack, rubbed his red head, sighed, looked out of the window, and muttered something about guessing he'd have to see you first."
"Was it anything about Captain Bracewell?"
"He never got that far. He seemed to be in the last stages of buck-fever or acute rattles. But he doesn't look like a timid man."
David was called forward, and while Arthur kicked his heels on a bench by the gangway, Captain Thrasher happened along, on his way to the bridge.